


In The Good Old Days (When Times Were Bad)

by PepperF



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: Cowboy AU, F/M, because why not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 22:19:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4978678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperF/pseuds/PepperF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the newly-formed Colorado State Bar Association began to make things a little hot in Denver for Jeff, he'd meandered south and west, like the great Colorado itself, eventually coming to rest in Greendale, like a kicked pebble settling into a bootprint in the dirt. The town's inhabitants weren't too picky about his qualifications, mainly because they weren't that interested in the law at all. They were more inclined to use fisticuffs or guns to settle a fight, and those had never been Jeff's weapon of choice. He preferred words. They were almost never fatal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Good Old Days (When Times Were Bad)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Bethany for anachronism-wrangling and not telling me off for doing this when I've been promising that neighbours AU for ages now. :)
> 
> This is kind of open-ended, partly because I didn't really have much of a plot in mind, and partly because what I'd really love is for other people to come play in this universe... if so, please consider anything here fair game!

It was going to be a good day.

Jeff Winger leaned back in his creaky chair, propped his feet up on the nearby drinking trough, took a sip of coffee (strong, black, two sugars – his once-a-day indulgence), and looked out over the early-morning streets of Greendale. The chill of the night still hung in the air, and there was a hint of mist that softened the hard, splintery edges of the little town. Smoke and tiny sparks rose into the air above the back of Hank's barn as he stoked his blacksmithing fire, Miz Frankie was out sweeping the walk in front of her little boarding house, and a pair of hungry cowhands stumbled towards the saloon in search of breakfast, but the town was otherwise quiet and peaceful. For once, it almost looked pleasant.

He should get up early more often, he told himself. Of course, no one needed a lawyer at this time of the morning – one of the reasons he'd chosen this career – so it wasn't as if his little shingle was shaking from the stampeding feet of customers. Not that he was ever exactly rushed off his feet.

Jeff gave a little sigh. As the newly-formed Colorado State Bar Association began to make things a little hot in Denver for his kind of lawyer (the kind who'd spent six months as an apprentice, working from dawn til dusk on tedious, ink-stained and menial tasks, until boredom, frustration, and the lingering conviction that he deserved something better - well, and sleeping with his master's wife - had lost him the post, and who had then set up for himself on the strength of knowing how to sound like a lawyer and being good at arguing, but with almost no actual knowledge of the law, the lack of which had not stopped him from having a reasonably successful practice for some years), he'd meandered south and west, like the great Colorado itself. He'd eventually come to rest in Greendale, like a kicked pebble settling into a bootprint in the dirt. The town was thriving enough to have a local sheriff, but not yet civilized enough for said sheriff to mind that Jeff's qualifications consisted of his good looks, his silver tongue, and his copy of Blackstone's _Commentaries_. While Greendale was less picky about whether or not he'd completed his apprenticeship or been examined by a judge, it also meant they were less concerned about following the law at all. They were more inclined to use fisticuffs or guns to settle a fight, and those had never been Jeff's weapon of choice. He preferred words. They were almost never fatal.

Okay, there had been that ONE time, but it wasn't his fault if the man had a weak ticker.

So business hadn't exactly been thriving lately. Yesterday he'd made all of a dollar, helping a farmer write a letter to his mother. Still, nobody loses all the time, and a dollar was a dollar. He took a fortifying sip of coffee, and took a breath of cool, crisp air. Today was a new day. Everything was going to be fine.

\---

By late morning, this attitude of determined optimism had been eroded away by a combination of dust, hot sun, the stench of cattle drifting across from the corral, and an ongoing lack of customers, no matter how many charming smiles and greetings he scattered among passers-by. As the hours passed, his smile had become increasingly fixed, and now he let his mouth uncurl and retract until it was a small, thin line. He had to face it: no one was going to come. Jeff dropped his long legs to the ground, grabbed up his hat, and stalked across the street towards the saloon, jingling the small handful of coins in his pocket.

Inside, the place was dark, and the noon crowd had yet to start drifting in, so there was no one present but the owner. "Whiskey," he snapped, slamming a coin down on the bar.

"And good morning to you too, sunshine," said Britta – but she grabbed a bottle and poured him a glass nevertheless. She watched as he downed it in one go, and poured him another as soon as the glass hit the bar.

The first whiskey was already curdling his stomach, so Jeff turned this one in his hands, keeping his eyes lowered. "Am I a fool?" he asked quietly.

Britta gave a soft snort, and he looked up. "Do you really want me to answer that?" she asked.

To his surprise, Jeff found his mouth twitching up again in a brief smile. "No, not really," he admitted. Britta was always brutally honest – emphasis on 'brutally'. She also had strong opinions about lawyers. She had strong opinions about EVERYTHING, most especially about people who thought that a woman who worked in ("And owns, Jeff, I OWN that place! Mostly. Well, partly. But once I've paid off the bank, I'll own it. Probably. Someday.") a saloon was a woman of loose moral character.

("But you're sleeping with me, and we're not married, so that pretty much fits the description…"

"That's not what they mean, Jeff, and you know it. I mean you're not _paying_ me."

"What, for this? If anything, you ought to be paying me."

"Why, you smug, egotistical son of a—!")

Their brief and inadvisable fling, which had started not long after he'd first come to town, had burnt itself out naturally, and the agreement to part had been mutual. Jeff wouldn't have minded a quiet, ongoing little arrangement, so long as there was an understanding that it wasn't going to lead to any church business, but Britta wasn't interested, and so he'd shrugged and moved on. Mostly he was relieved that there was no awkwardness between them. This was a two-horse, two-bit, and (more importantly) two-saloon town: Britta's Down Home Saloon, and the Old Horse Hotel. Britta's place had rotting sawdust on the floor, the glasses were dirty, the whiskey was sour, the company were a low-down, cheating, vicious, intellectually-barren mix of cowboys, gamblers and good-time girls, and there were brawls like clockwork every Saturday night. And the Old Horse was really terrible.

"Want to talk about it?" asked Britta, nonchalantly polishing a glass.

"Not really. You know that cloth is filthy, right?"

She gave him a glare. "Do I tell you how to do law stuff?"

"No. Because you don't know the first thing about being a lawyer. But I'm pretty sure I know how to clean a glass."

"Oh, shut up," she grumbled.

Jeff pointed a finger at her. "I take it back, you'd be an amazing lawyer."

"Shut _up_ , jackass." For emphasis, she snapped the rag at him.

Jeff grinned, but it faded quickly as he remembered what had driven him into the saloon. "Actually, I might be begging you for a bartending job soon, if business stays like this," he said.

"Ah." For once, she kindly refrained from saying anything about punishments for past sins. "That bad, huh?"

"Put it this way: I'm hoping Miz Frankie doesn't mind being paid in manual labor in lieu of rent this month."

"Again," pointed out Britta.

"Yeah."

"You're lucky she's building that extension."

"I know."

"It's nearly finished, though."

"I _know_. Shut up."

"Wow, I can see how you fooled everyone into thinking you were a lawyer for years."

"Ugh, Britta, don't you ever just—"

"Howdy, folks!"

Jeff turned quickly. Standing in the doorway, hands on his hips, was Troy Barnes. Jeff relaxed, and touched a finger to his hat brim. "Sheriff," he greeted.

"Mr Winger. Miz Perry. How are you both this fine morning?"

Jeff turned back to lean his elbows on the bar. He met Britta's gaze, his own eyes glinting with sudden mischief. Their sheriff had been on the job for all of two months, and the shine was still on his badge. Sometimes Jeff was simply _forced_ to gently mock him, but fortunately for Troy, he was mostly happily oblivious to Jeff's crueler gibes. Britta gave him a stern glare, heavy with the message: _play nice_. "Can't complain," replied Jeff, neutrally. "How's business? Know anyone who needs a lawyer?"

Troy's spurs jangled as he moseyed over to the bar. "No, it's all been kinda quiet lately," he said, with a tinge of regret. The kid seemed to actually enjoy getting shot at, or something. "But I'll see what I can rustle up for you." He nudged Jeff with one elbow. "Hey, maybe I'll rustle up a rustler."

"Hah! Nice one," said Britta, and put a glass of whiskey in front of the sheriff. "On the house."

Jeff glared at her. He never got free whiskey – not even when they'd been sleeping together.

"Uh, thanks, Miz Perry, but isn't it a bit early for hard liquor?" Troy looked between two blank stares. "You know what, never mind," he said, and picked up the glass. He took a wary sip, and grimaced. "Gah!"

"Yeah, it's horrible," agreed Jeff. "Watering it don't do no good. I find it's best just to get it down your throat as fast as possible." He demonstrated with his own glass, which Britta promptly refilled again. "Hey, at least the service is decent," he said, giving her a crooked grin.

Troy looked dubiously at his glass. "Well, okay," he said, and followed suit.

When he'd finally stopped coughing, and had drained the glass of milk that Britta had dredged up from somewhere, Troy shook his head. "I think I'll stick to beer," he said, voice raw.

Britta nodded. "Might be wise," she agreed. "Want one now?"

"Thanks, but I was just stopping by to say hello. I'd better be off," he said, easily. "Don't want to miss the noon stage."

"Why, you expecting a parcel or something?" asked Jeff, with lazy curiosity.

Troy looked at him, eyebrows raised. "No – don't you know? Annie's coming in on it!"

When he'd gone, Britta whipped her head around to look at Jeff, who was turning his glass in circles on the bar again. "Okay, Winger, out with it," she said briskly. "I know that face. What's got you so spooked? Was it what Troy said about Annie coming back to town? Why are you scared of that little girl?" She leaned forwards, hands on the bar. "What did you do?"

Jeff looked up in surprise at her accusative tone. "Nothing! Nothing. Well, practically nothing. I mean, you do-se-do with a girl just _once_..."

Britta hit him with her rag. "Jeff!" She raised it to hit him again, and he held his hands up to defend himself.

"Hey! It's not – that wasn't a euphemism!"

"Oh." Britta lowered the cloth. " _Oh_. You mean you actually danced with her."

"YES, duh. At the mayor's annual Spring barn dance, last year. She's a good kid, Britta – and I'm not a complete monster!" He sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair. "Trouble is, I think she's been sweet on me ever since. It's embarrassing."

"For her, because it shows that she has poor taste," agreed Britta, blithely. Jeff rolled his eyes. "But why should you be embarrassed? Don't the cowboys love it when the girls are swooning over them?"

"Okay, a) I am not a cowboy, and b) I prefer women to girls." He leered at her, and Britta stuck her tongue out at him.

"Slut," she accused, good-naturedly. "Anyway, what makes you think she'll still have any thought of you? I mean, that dance was – what – a year and a half ago? And she's spent a whole year in Boston since then, where she'll no doubt have met plenty of nicer, more intelligent, more handsome, younger men. She probably didn't think of you past Kansas City. When I was in New—"

"—York you were the toast of the town and everywhere you went there was a carpet of men at your feet, I know, I know," he sighed. "You're probably right. Well, not about the more handsome part, but all the rest of it. She'll probably have forgotten all about me." _Except_ , said a nagging little voice in the back of his head. _Except..._ But it had been just one brief, stolen kiss. She'd hardly have fixated on that – would she?

He pictured Annie, her bright, hopeful eyes, and her intense nature, and thought grimly that a girl like that might well have taken it as a promise – or worse, a proposal. Still, he consoled himself with the certainty that he'd never actually offered anything of the sort. If she'd convinced herself that there was anything between them, then that was her own fault. He'd made it clear – in deeds, if not in actual words – that it had been a mistake, a momentary lapse brought on by the warmth of alcohol in his veins, the pretty flush on her cheeks, the glimmering starlight that had simultaneously made her look more mysterious and more touchable than ever before, and her imminent departure from Greendale. He should have known better than to take advantage of her obvious devotion to him, but at least the madness had only been temporary. He'd made up for it by avoiding her until she headed off on her trip to Boston a week later, and surely even a girl as naïvely optimistic as Annie would have gotten the implied message. He'd not written to her – well, he had no idea of her address. She'd not written to him either, and she would have known how to find him, so that at least was a good sign that she wouldn't be returning with a trousseau and a list of potential names for their children.

On the other hand, he'd not heard that she'd married while in Boston, either, and while Miz Frankie was generally pretty taciturn about the private details of her own and her niece's lives, she would definitely have shared a piece of news like that. How was it possible, with a town full of eligible men ready to fall at her feet, that a girl as pretty and smart as Annie hadn't been snatched up, if not that she'd been turning away all the offers?

"So are you going?"

He looked up. "What?"

Britta stared at him as if he was an idiot, and then nodded towards the street. "To greet the noon stage," she said.

Jeff frowned. "No. Of course not. Haven't you been listening?"

Britta rolled her eyes. "So you're going to avoid her, is that your brilliant solution?"

"No. I'm going to stay here and drink, because I don't need to avoid _or_ to meet her. If that's all right with you?" he asked, with deep sarcasm. "I mean, this is still a public saloon, isn't it?"

"Jerk," she said, and swung away just as a couple of townsfolk drifted in off the street. "Hi there!" she said, greeting them a little too enthusiastically. "Come on in, what can I get you?"

They looked startled, but ordered the bean stew – a specialty of the house. Jeff, meanwhile, finished off his third whiskey, and began to feel a pleasantly warm, buzzy sense of disconnection. He grabbed the bottle that she'd left within reach, and poured himself another, holding it up to look through the liquid. There were bits floating in it – whether from the whiskey or from Britta's idea of 'cleaning', he didn't know – but he found he didn't care overmuch.

From outside came the thundering sound of hooves and wheels, and Jeff glanced up at the carriage clock that took pride of place behind the bar, and nodded to himself. The noon stage, right on schedule. Of course it would be: Annie was on it. "Welcome home, Annie," he muttered, and drank to that.

\---

Whiskey number five (or was it six?) joined its brethren in his stomach, and Britta was busy as people started to drift in for lunch or to get an early start on the evening's drinking, so there was nothing to stop Jeff as he meandered vaguely towards the doors. "Jus' going out to take a look," he muttered to no one in particular.

Outside, the sun was unpleasantly bright, and Jeff squinted hard, and leaned – or rather stumbled gracelessly – back against the wall of the saloon, putting a hand up to shade his eyes. "Ugh. Goddamn Greendale."

It was noisy, crowded and smelly, and Jeff's addled brain took its own sweet time wrangling the world into distinct shapes and sounds. At last he saw that the stage had mostly finished unloading passengers and parcels. The largest pile stood beside two slim brunettes, who stood talking with their arms comfortably around one another, shielded by a parasol and oblivious to the fact that they were blocking the sidewalk. In fairness, most of the people around them were also talking – it was a regular homecoming, it seemed.

As Jeff watched, the shorter brunette – yes, that was definitely Annie – lifted an arm to direct a helpful cowhand to carry several bandboxes towards the boarding house.

"Dainty, but also practical," said a voice beside him, making him jump. He glanced up and found Abed Nadir stood next to him. The younger man – all Jeff really knew about him was that his father owned the general store, that he was a dime-novel aficionado, and that he and Troy were inseparable – gave him a casual nod of greeting, and continued as if they'd been in the middle of a conversation. "The white gloves, I mean. They make it much easier for her gestures to be seen, even from far away. Look."

Annie transferred the parasol to her other hand, releasing her aunt, and began to point out different boxes to people who were kindly helping her. Abed's hand moved in imitation of one particularly sweeping gesture.

"I think they're travel gloves," said Jeff, for want of anything better to say. "Ladies have 'em."

"I can see why. I wonder if they do them in men's sizes." Abed looked down at his own long-fingered hands curiously.

"I don't… Abed, what the hell are you talking about?"

Abed gave him an unreadable look. "I'm just making conversation," he said, but Jeff had a feeling that wasn't the whole truth.

"Yeah, well, I'm not really in the mood, so…"

"Annie's returned home," said Abed.

Jeff gave him a long, slow look, wondering if Abed had been dropped on his head as a baby or something. "Yeah. I know."

"No, I mean – it's a classic storyline," said Abed, seeming to think that he was being enlightening. "Girl loves boy, boy doesn't notice her, girl goes away, acquires polish, comes back, boy realizes he's been blind." He grimaced. "I prefer a good gunfight myself, but this sort of thing has a lot of appeal to a certain audience, so I'm trying to understand it better."

"Abed…" So many questions circled around Jeff's head. He went for the simplest. "Why are you talking to me?"

Abed shrugged. "You looked like you were having an existential crisis."

"And you thought that you'd, what, come and help me find my way through it?"

"Oh, no. I just wanted to see it up close."

"Oh." Well, that was… oddly comforting, actually, in a bleak sort of way.

They stood in silence, watching as boxes and trunks made their way towards the boarding house under Annie's precise directions. As the final ones were carried off, Annie took a sweeping look around at her home town. As if she'd known all along that he'd been watching, her gaze seemed to home in on Jeff, and her eyes met his from across the street. Caught like a roped steer, Jeff froze. After a long moment, the corner of her mouth twitched up into a tiny smile. Jeff felt his shoulders untense, and he reached up to touch the brim of his hat in greeting.

Annie nodded once in acknowledgement, and then turned away and put her arm around her aunt's waist again. She raised her parasol at a jaunty angle, and together they strode away towards their home.

Jeff breathed out a sigh, not sure if he was relieved or disappointed. Had he wanted there to be a scene? No, of course not. But he'd kind of thought… Well, whatever he'd thought, it looked like she wasn't going to be childish about what had happened last year, and that was definitely a relief.

He turned to look at Abed, who was giving him an uncomfortably penetrating look. "Hey, kid?"

"Yes?"

"This isn't…" He gestured between himself and the departing Annie. "It's not a storyline, okay? There's no story here."

Abed contemplated this for a long moment. "If you say so, Jeff," he said at last. And Jeff was forced to be content with that, because the kid turned and strode away on long, remarkably fast legs.

\---

Jeff woke up late and in a bad mood. His head was splitting, and when he remembered his reasons for drinking, that only made it worse. His rent was due, his funds were lower than ever, he had no customers, practically no career, no prospects, and he was stuck in the back of beyond with a bunch of cowboys whose notion of a riotously good time consisted of getting very drunk, having a fistfight, and bedding a whore. He didn't mind step one, but he'd always avoided step two, in part so he wouldn't need step three. Jeff Winger did not care to pay for those kinds of pleasures. It was the last scrap of dignity to which he clung, and to pay would be to admit defeat on the one thing the bank couldn't take: his personal charm.

Unfortunately for all this high rhetoric, prospects in Greendale had been pretty sparse of late. His agreement with Britta was long over, and other than her, most of the women in the local area were too old, too young, too married, too keen to be married, or the aforementioned ladies of ill repute. The list of ladies in Greendale who might be willing to risk their reputation for some fun was woefully short. There was Mrs. Slater, the still relatively young widow who ran the bank, but she knew how much money he didn't have, so that was just embarrassing. There was Sabrina, the schoolteacher, but she was just... she was... well, the fact was, she was _shockingly_ stupid. There was Miz Frankie, but she seemed bizarrely immune to his charm, and besides, she was his landlady and he owed her money. Or...

For what seemed like the thousandth time, his mind turned to Annie Edison, newly-returned from Boston just last week. She'd acquired some town bronze, some sophistication, and a part of Jeff wondered just how far that sophistication went. This was at war with the part of him that remembered the girl who'd left Greendale a year ago. Now, her dresses weren't so floral and frilly, and they swept the floor instead of being hitched up for ease of movement; her hair was up in loops and curls instead of hanging long around her face or swept back into careless ribbons; but still he saw glimpses of that carefree, cheerful girl in her bright smile and light step. In his mind's eye, he could still picture her on that night at the dance, looking so miserable and lonesome that his heart was moved by unaccustomed pity. Jeff Winger never felt pity. It was one of his strengths as a lawyer. But she was young and female, so it was a permissible weakness, wasn't it? And so he'd asked her to dance, almost pleased to find that he still had some humanity, buried deep down at the bottom of his soul. Besides, she'd been a sweet armful, and the boys of Greendale were obviously all idiots – as he'd foolishly told her.

He hadn't intended for her to follow him around like a stray kitten after that, but really, she hadn't been much bother, and it wasn't as though she was in any danger from him – or he from her. He had absolutely no intention of getting mixed up with someone that obviously young and innocent, thank you very much. He knew Miz Frankie had a shotgun.

The trouble was, he could no longer convince himself that she was just a girl. She was now most definitely a young lady with a trim and surprisingly distracting figure, big blue eyes, and soft pink lips – lips that he himself had sampled in a moment of madness a year ago. And now she was somehow even more tempting...

It was only a year, he told himself, a little desperately. How could a year make that much difference? He was still the same Jeff Winger he'd been a year ago. Why should it be any different for her? _Because_ , said his brain, unhelpfully, _the difference between nineteen and twenty is much greater than the difference between thirty-five and thirty-six._

At this point, Jeff realised that his thoughts were circling pointlessly again, and decided to get out of bed. He splashed water on his face from the basin, and set about shaving himself in the scrap of mirror he'd nailed to the wall. He might be on the brink of financial ruination, but that didn't mean a man had to let his standards lapse. Then he fumbled through his closet, and grabbed the last clean shirt. After a moment of thought, he grabbed the rest, piling them onto the bed while he finished dressing. The boarding house laundry day wasn't until tomorrow, and usually he had it timed so his clothes would last just long enough, but last week he'd had to get rid of a shirt that was just too worn, so his cycle was out. If Miz Frankie or Meghan, the girl she employed, were around, maybe he could persuade one of them to do his shirts a day early.

Downstairs, he peeked in cautiously through the kitchen doorway, and saw Miz Frankie by the stove. He put on his most charming smile, awkwardly aware that he was behind on his rent and still had to negotiate how many hours of manual labour she'd accept in lieu. "Good morning," he said, keeping his voice low and sweet. She might have been immune to his charm up until now, but it didn't hurt to keep trying.

The woman turned – and Jeff's planned spiel stuttered to a halt. He'd gotten used to there being just one slender brunette around the house, but now he saw that his quick glance had been insufficient to gauge the true danger before him. It wasn't Miz Frankie by the stove. It was Annie.

"Oh, ah, I didn't mean to interrupt – I'm sorry, I was looking for your aunt." He gave a smile that probably wasn't his best, to judge by Annie's frown. "I'll – I'd better go."

"Oh, don't be silly, Mr Winger," said Annie, briskly. "Come in, if I can help. My aunt has gone visiting, she'll not be back for some hours." Jeff still hesitated. "What can I do for you?" she asked, a little more gently.

Jeff stepped into the room. "Well, I was wondering if... I know it's a day early, but I needed to get a shirt or two washed, so I wondered if..." Somehow, the words were coming out mangled. He straightened, and tried the smile on again. It felt a little better, this time. "Would you have time to do a tiny favour for a poor, threadbare lawyer?"

Annie eyed him in silence for a long moment. Then she nodded towards the curtain in the corner, behind which stood the area for doing laundry. On washing days, the curtain was pulled back, and the whole kitchen taken over by large pans of hot water, and the smell of soap and sweat. "There are rags already soaking," she said. "You can wash them in that. There's lye soap in the dish. Don't use too much."

"Uh..." That hadn't exactly been the outcome he'd been hoping for, but when Annie's frown reappeared, he decided it was best not to fight that battle. "Thank you." He crossed the kitchen on the other side of the rugged table from her, and hooked back the curtain. Deciding against doing all his laundry – he just needed to survive for one more day before the rest were done for him by Meghan – he selected a shirt that wouldn't need too much washing, and dunked it into the nearest of the large copper pans, where various rags were already soaking, and grabbed the soap. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Annie went back to whatever she was cooking.

"There's a brush," she said, after several long minutes of silence. Jeff looked up from the spot he'd been scrubbing, to see her pointing at the shelf above him. "It might help."

"Oh. Uh, thanks."

He grabbed the brush and rubbed soap onto it, and went back to work on his shirt. Silence descended again, but it was a little more comfortable this time.

"The other one is for rinsing," she said, when he was wringing the water out from his shirt. She pushed hair back from her face with a floury hand – she'd moved on from whatever mysterious substance was cooking over the stove to kneading the day's bread – and pointed at the second pan.

Jeff nodded his thanks, and dunked his shirt in the cleaner water. When it was pretty much as clean as it was going to get, he wrung out the water again, and looked around for some means of hanging it up to dry.

"There are pegs in the bag on the back of the door," said Annie, in answer to his unspoken question. "You can hang it outside." She nodded towards the door that led out to the small, fenced-off kitchen garden.

"Thank you," he said again, and grabbed a couple of pegs from the bag before heading out to hang up his shirt. He took his time, breathing in the fragrance rising up from the herb bed and wishing there was a way out of the garden that didn't involve going back through the kitchen again. But there wasn't – and really, it hadn't been too awkward. Maybe he didn't need to avoid her, after all.

When he turned, though, he revised that thought. Annie was standing in the doorway, rubbing flakes of dough from her fingers as she watched him. Jeff froze.

"Would you mind...?" she asked, and pointed towards the water pump.

"Oh! Yeah. Sure." He stepped quickly to the pump and began to work it. It took a few strokes before the water started coming through, and Annie leaned forward so her skirt and boots were safely out of the way, and quickly scrubbed her hands clean under the splashing water.

"Thank you," she said, when she was done.

Jeff let go of the pump and stood up, stretching the kinks out of his back. Housework was for the birds. "No problem, Miss Edison."

She looked up, smiling. "You used to call me Annie," she reminded him.

Jeff stared at her, wondering vaguely when and where she'd learned that trick – the shy-yet-flirtatious glance up through her eyelashes thing. Because, _damn_. "Uh, yeah. I did, didn't I?" He cleared his throat. "Well, you know, maybe that's a little too familiar, now that you're all..." He waved vaguely at her, but couldn't come up with any ways of finishing the sentence that weren't completely inappropriate.

She rolled her eyes, and wiped her hands on her apron. "Oh, for heaven's sake. I've been meaning to talk to you about this, _Mr Winger_."

Now that sounded like a cue to leave if ever he'd heard one. Unfortunately, she stood between him and the door. "Uh, you know, I should probably—"

"You've been avoiding me, haven't you? I've barely seen you since I returned, which is quite a trick given that we live in the same house."

"Well, I've been at work. Speaking of which, I really ought to be—"

"And every time you see me, you seem to suddenly need to be elsewhere. And I think I know why. It's because of..." She looked around quickly, just to be sure there was no one within earshot. "Because of that kiss last year," she finished.

Jeff's brain went into panic mode. Here it came. She was going to ask what his intentions were, she was going to say she'd dreamed of him every night since, she was going to tell him that she had refused to even look at another man...

So busy was he, envisioning all his worst nightmares come true, that he almost missed her actual words.

"...was only a moment of foolishness, that's all, and it meant nothing. Right?"

She was looking at him, calmly awaiting his response, and it took his brain a moment to catch up with his ears. And when it did, he wasn't sure he trusted their input. "Um. What?"

Annie sighed, looking annoyed. "I would like things to go back to normal between us, _Mr Winger_. You need to stop avoiding me, or my aunt will notice and jump to the conclusion that there is something going on between us, which is really unfair given that that's the opposite of the truth. I'm not about to throw myself at you, if that's what worries you."

"You're not?" Jeff got a grip on himself. "I mean, you're not, that's great. Yeah, I have to admit, I was a little concerned. We didn't really talk after we – before you left."

"You were avoiding me then, too," said Annie, crisply.

Jeff nodded, feeling more than a little stupid. Clearly he'd had nothing to fear from her. If anything, it seemed like the kiss had helped her to get over her silly little infatuation. Which, now he thought about it, was a little insulting. Had he done it wrong? Had his breath been bad? Because, in his memories, it was a moment of warmth, of pleasure, of surprising desire, two hearts beating fast, close together as she melted into his arms with a moan that shot straight through him...

And that was irrelevant. It meant nothing.

"Yeah. That was... I'm sorry," he said. 

Annie nodded, seemingly accepting his apology, as simply as that. "So, we're okay."

He wasn't sure if it was a statement or a question, but he nodded. "We're okay."

She smiled in relief. "Good. Because I was beginning to wonder if I was going to have to get Troy to lock you in a cell just so I could talk to you."

He gave a surprised chuckle, all too able to picture her doing exactly that. "I've been kind of evasive, huh?"

"Like a startled rabbit, every time you see me," she said, with relish. Jeff winced.

"Gee, that's so flattering..."

Annie shrugged. "I'll be nice, so long as you stop avoiding me," she promised.

He nodded. "You'll stop calling me _Mr Winger_ in that tone?"

She grinned brightly. "Only if you call me Annie, like you used to."

"It's a deal." He held out his hand, and she took it, shaking it firmly. Her skin was soft and smooth, and he stroked his thumb along her wrist, unable to stop himself. "Annie," he said – and dammit, that was nothing like he used to say her name. He'd never said it so... softly, questioningly...

Her eyes widened, and her lips parted, her breath quickening – and he was right back there again, in the shadowy warmth of the stables, with the heady feeling of whiskey in his veins whispering things like _leaving soon_ and _last chance_. He found himself leaning closer, his hand following the line of her bent arm to her waist. She was very still, making no move to encourage or to stop him, and Jeff hesitated, searching her face for some kind of sign. Doubt crept in, and the remembrance of why he shouldn't do this. So when at last she wet her lips, tilting her chin up invitingly, he was able – barely – to suppress his first instinct. He closed his eyes, clinging to his fragile control. _Entanglements_ , he reminded himself. _Shotgun._

"I should go." Yes, that didn't sound at all dazed and reluctant.

He felt her draw in a breath, and then she moved back, away from his arms. "Yes, I think you should."

When he looked again, she'd turned her face, and had stepped aside from the doorway. But still he hesitated, torn between several conflicting desires. "Annie," he said again – this time firmly, with purpose. She looked up, and he tried to find something to say that wasn't too intimate, or too cold... "I'm glad you're back," he said, and was surprised to find that he really meant it.

She smiled. There was something a little weary about it, but it was a genuine smile nevertheless. "Thank you." She turned, and disappeared through the door in a swish of skirts. " _Mr Winger_ ," she added, over her shoulder.

Jeff groaned quietly. Apparently he was going to have to earn his name again. And he abruptly remembered what he'd somehow managed to forget or suppress: underneath all that sweetness and light, she was a little termagant. 

With a spring in his step, he followed her inside.


End file.
